


Just the One

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Lawyer / Author, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author!John, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lawyer!Sherlock, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, PTSD, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has become a household name in the Hardboiled subgenre of crime fiction but he's just killed off his main character in an attempt to retire the series.  After a manic fan attack lands him in the hospital, he finds himself thrown into the path of a young man who will rekindle the creativity he thought he'd lost.<br/>____</p><p>AU fic, I will add tags and character lists as they appear.  Don't want to spoil everything just yet!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Final Scrape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one more book signing. Then John Watson could happily retire from the spotlight.

“Just one more signing, John. It won’t kill you.” Dark eyes glowered behind wire rimmed readers, pinning the exasperated author in his seat. John Watson fidgeted nervously in the stiff guest chair, twisting a loose thread on his navy striped jumper. He wished desperately for something to distract his gaze, but since Mike Stamford’s name was on the building, there was no nameplate on his desk. The large mahogany surface was bare save for the bookstore contract he wanted signed and a fountain pen held between patient fingers. The silence hanging between them went unanswered, so the larger man slowly reclined into his deep burgundy leather chair smirking and waiting.

Mike was built like an overgrown cherub: chubby, soft and pink. But when a deal was on the line he had the steely demeanor of the Devil himself. That reserved force was now solidified into a cool stare, silently forcing John Watson out of early retirement. Defeated, the fidgeting man let out a low whine and cleared his throat before offering the smallest of curt nods. Arguing with his publisher was always a losing battle but he could never resist the instinct to push back when cornered. John may cave, but only under his terms.

“Just the one.” John said, sitting up straighter, former military instinct aligning his spine into a more commanding posture. His blue eyes flashed in challenge as he snatched the pen from Mike’s grasp and paused just above the small red flag, waiting.

“Just the one.” Mike conceded. Papers signed, John stood and gathered his coat and scarf to leave. The calculating cherub flashed him a genuine grin of thanks. “I will text you the details this evening.”

John exited the too familiar office without a glance back, drawing in a breath only when he was clear of the hateful brick and marble. He’d grown sick of that room and that elevator muzak and those glass doors years ago. And when he’d coaxed his main protagonist off the edge of a cliff last October, he’d hoped it would be the end of his association with Stamford Publishing. Of course no one, not even Mike, could have predicted the media shitstorm and backlash.

In the past ten years, John Watson had become a household name in the Hardboiled subgenre of crime fiction. His _Faceless Detective_ series started as a small cult phenomenon. But after the eighth novel was published, it caught the attention of a young television producer and a show pilot was drafted. Three semi successful seasons later, the show writers took to their own happy ending complete with marriage and children. But crime of all crimes, they named the nameless one. Fans of the enigmatic character were immediately turned off and stopped tuning in. As ratings plummeted, Mike had pushed John to release more novels, attend more signings and milk the convention circuit.

He was worn thin and depleted of creative energy when the author decided it was time to move on and lie his trenchcoated brooding loner to rest. And so, last Summer he slammed a copy of _The Final Scrape_ down on Mike’s desk and stormed out. A few angry phone calls and heated emails later, the Faceless Detective tackled his last case. In a page-turning struggle with his arch nemesis, the decade long chase came to a sudden end at the bottom of a steep ravine. The detective had always worked alone. He didn’t make friends and his family remained unnamed for ten years of publishing. And so there would be no character to identify the bodies or deliver any final words. John’s closing narration was the only balm to soothe the wound for his readers.

 

 

>   _There would be no obituary. No eulogy. No headstone. Faceless and forgotten, to all but those whose lives he’d unknowingly touched._

_____

  
The weekend following his meeting, John found himself tucked into a corner of Linden’s Bookstore surrounded by posters of _The Final Scrape_. A small table was settled behind velvet ropes with two seats for Mike and himself to greet guests and sign copies of his final book. Per John’s request, the bookstore added on three more guards and a bomb team had swept the building before opening for the signing. “Better safe than dead,” he’d replied to Mike’s rolling eyes and put upon sigh.

In the seven months following publication of the series finale, John Watson and Stamford Publishing had received a combined twenty-three bomb threats, one-hundred forty-eight death threats, fifty-nine promises of lawsuit and an infinite influx of hate-filled comments across every available social networking site and fan forum. The antsy author could hardly be blamed for his shaky hands and darting eyes. Mike simply brooded to his left and watched his most published author signing copy after copy of his final book. _Why do the good ones always retire early?_

After an hour of nothing but love and praise from his fans, John found himself finally relaxing and smiling. A few unruly kids with rude signs had been carted off but, overall, the line snaking around the bookstore was full of smiling faces. One of those smiles was attached to a lovely petite blonde who approached the table and placed a well worn, dog-eared print of _The Final Scrape_ before him.

“Good evening,” John beamed, looking up at his guest and opening the book to the title page “and who shall I make it out to?”

“Mary Blackwood,” she replied coolly. Her smile said flirty, but there was a spark of mischief in her eyes that should John have batted for that particular team might have stirred something within his jeans. Instead, it simply took him aback and produced a startled stutter.

“L-like my, uh, villain?” he stammered out.

“Yes. Just the same,” she answered with a grin, leaning forward to reveal a bit of cleavage accented by a single pearl drop pendant. John had been hit on by fans before, it came with the territory of being in the public eye. He flashed his best good sport smile and handed the book back to her, a little _XO_ signed after his name. “There you are then, Mary.”

“Could I, that is,” the young woman suddenly altered her face. Demure and shy, avoiding the direct eye contact she’d pulled so heavily just moments ago. “May I take a photo with you, Mr. Watson?”

“John,” he corrected on instinct. “Let me ask the big boss.” John laughed and flashed a quick smile before turning towards Mike. Of course the impatient little man had chosen that moment to step outside for a smoke leaving his author staring at an empty seat.

“And… looks like he’s not here, so let me say.. yes?” John agreed reluctantly. There were about twenty people waiting in line to see him before closing so he would have to make it quick. Especially since now that one fan was made an exception, those who followed would be inclined to ask for photographs as well. He gave the guard near him a short nod and indicated the small velvet rope blocking his exit from behind the table.

Rounding to the front of the signing area, John asked the nearest guard to take Mary’s camera and take the picture. He obliged with a _this isn’t in my job description_ sigh and stepped back a few meters to get them both in frame. Once set up, John placed an arm around the young woman’s shoulders offering a half hearted hug and letting her settle in to his side. She smiled up at him as he turned to the camera and counted down. “Ready? 3… 2… oof!”

John jerked back suddenly, pain shooting through his chest. His hand came up to touch the offending area only to come back wet and hot. “Did you just.. did.. you..” _stab me?_ the words were lost in his throat as John stumbled backwards onto the signing table. Mary laughed loudly, throwing aside the small blade in her hand and crouching down, readying her body for a full sprint. Suddenly, John found himself knocked aside in a blur of motion as his assailant was toppled by a familiar looking man in a dark coat.  He half remembered someone similar waiting in line moments ago.  Just beyond his vision, Mary elicited a frightened yelp followed by a deep voice yelling for security.

Once movement settled, security staff dragged the screaming young blonde to the front of the store, zip cuffs restraining her hands. The tall stranger rushed to John’s side, removing his scarf and pressing it to the injured man’s chest to slow the bleeding. John looked up dazed and half convinced he was having a nightmare. Or was it a dream? He was being rescued by his own protagonist after all. The unruly dark curls, black trenchcoat, indigo scarf now soaking up John’s blood, everything was straight out of the Faceless Detective’s wardrobe.

John found his voice and mumbled out, “Detective?” The stranger laughed and reassured him with a soft smile behind beautiful silver eyes. A deep baritone was trying to coax him to stay awake but the darkness had already seeped into the edges of John’s vision. “Mr. Watson. Please, stay with me. I have called for an ambulance,” the stranger said, gently tapping the fallen man on the cheek. John lulled his head to the side and smiled up at Mike’s shocked expression as his publisher pushed through the chaos to kneel beside him. He tried to open his mouth to say _I told you so_  but no sound came out. He blinked once, scrunched his face in frustration, then passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Concept and image of the Faceless Detective influenced by DC's _Question_.
> 
> *update* a few minor edits. I'd prefer not to have large blocks of text from John's stories as his writing style needs to be his own, not mine. Thank you to all the love and support I've already received. You guys are great!


	2. Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in the hospital recovering from his injuries. He is met with a few well wishers and two strangers.

John woke to the buzz of fluorescent bulbs, the steady drip of his IV and a beeping heart monitor. His first movements were cautious, limited by the tug of bandages across his aching chest.

“Morning sunshine.” A bright peppy voice spoke beside him. Blinking through the glare of a too white room, John met smiling navy eyes and a familiar face.

“Harry? Is that really you?”

“Shocker, I know. Haven’t even been drinking today little brother.”

“So I’ve died and gone to Heaven then is it?”

“Hardly, Johnny boy. I sold my ticket for that particular stairway years ago.”

“You look well.” John returned his sister’s smile. “You’re really sober then?” He asked, still a bit amazed that his sister had even shown up let alone shown up clear eyed and happy.

“Amazing isn’t it? You should get stabbed more often.” The tall blonde laughed pulling a small laugh from John until his face twisted in pain. “Careful Johnny, doctors say you’ll still be healing for a few weeks.” Leaning forward, Harry lay a gentle kiss on her brother’s cheek. “Popping off for supper, love. I’ll let the nurses know you’re up. Clara sends her prayers. Mike sent the flowers. I will be in London for a few days if you need anyone to check in on you at the flat.”

“Thanks, really, but you know I can manage. Ta.” John’s smile held as he watched his sister leave. He tried not to get his hopes up too high, Harry had sobered up before, usually in the wake of an emergency hospital visit or funeral. The family tree was thinning but Harry still continued to fall back into old habits as soon as her mourning period passed.

Experimentally, John adjusted his position in bed to check the damage for himself. Poking the lump of bandages just below his heart, he could feel the numbness of anesthesia and the rigid ripple of stitches. Harry was right, it would take several weeks to heal a wound that deep. Though no longer working in the medical field, Captain John Watson served as medic in the Queen’s army for many years before his untimely injury and discharge. He’d seen the blade and he could feel how far it had run him through.

Silver eyes and a lush baritone flashed through his memory. The man who’d saved him teased like a phantom in the back of his mind. John silently hoped Mike had the good sense to get his savior’s name so he could thank the man properly. Maybe take him out for coffee. Or dinner. Either way he wanted to see the stranger again. His face was already becoming a blurry memory and that just would not do.

The attending nurse broke his reverie, wheeling in a squeaky cart and changing his IV bag. “I hear our resident celebrity is awake.” She smiled down at John, checked his bandages and took his vitals. “Lovely man like you being attacked, not right. I were you, I’d stay in me house forever.” John felt panic tickling the back of his mind, suddenly very aware of how vulnerable and alone he was. “Oi, no worries. We got all sorts security for you. And that scary fat man’ll be back later. He your bodyguard?”

John laughed at that. Cringing through the tears. “No, god no, Mike is my publisher. He could be a street tough in another life though couldn’t he?”

“He’s got a scary enough face for it!” the nurse agreed, laughing on her way out. Over her shoulder, John caught a glimpse of shadow. A flash of dark curls bouncing over deep blue. Then he was gone. John’s fresh morphine drip kicked in and the author was reluctantly pulled back to sleep.

Mike stopped by in the evening with fresh coffee and a fistful of tabloids. “You should really consider updating your dust cover shot. The press are all using your old Army mug.” John smiled and tried his hardest to stifle a laugh that threatened to rip his stitches out. “Too bad, I look quite fetching in my khakis,” he answered with a wink.

The sturdy man laughed and set the newspapers on John’s table tray. He turned to settle into a chair by the window, smoothing wrinkles from his trousers as he spoke. “The woman who attacked you was taken into custody. Calls herself --”

“Blackwood,” John completed with a scowl, no longer amused by the pseudonym.

“Yes,” Mike continued. “President of your fanclub actually. Mary Morstan, twenty two, London chapter president and something of an internet celebrity. Her fanbase has been sending in emails all morning. Some are even halfway apologetic but all of them seem to believe you brought this on yourself.” Mike paused, watching the anger and disbelief play across John’s features. The man may have left the military but a hardness was still in him. The ability to swallow emotion down and put on a blank face.

“On the upside the publicity of the stabbing is driving your book sales back up,” Mike laughed, breaking the tension between them as he rose from his seat and walked back to John’s bedside.

“Brilliant,” John huffed. “All going according to my genius plan to be stabbed by a nutter and go stir crazy as I’m laid up at home for two months with nothing new to write.”

Mike forced a smile, trying to remain a voice of reason in the midst of everything. “Well now you can retire or take your creativity sabbatical, whatever you called it. Just don’t lose my number, John. You know we are all here for you.”

“I know,” John said. He watched his publisher shuffle for the door, pausing to turn and flash another reassuring smile. Just beyond Mike’s shoulder he saw the shadowed corner from earlier and remembered. “Wait, Mike, before you go. Did you get the man’s name?”

The spectacled man pinched his face in confusion, trying desperately to wrack his memory for any man they had just been discussing. Coming up empty he asked, “What man?”

“The stranger.” John said as if those two words clarified or explained anything. “The one who saved me and tackled Mary?”

“Oh. Oh!,” Mike’s face lit up in realization. “No one knows who he is. He slipped out while you were being loaded into the ambulance and before I could speak to him. Apparently he was in some sort of cosplay. All the witnesses just described him as the Faceless Detective. I remember he was tall--”

“--slender, dark unruly curls, piercing gaze,” John interjected, voice gone mellow and reminiscent. “His eyes were so surreal, I mistook him for an illusion. He was wearing a soft blue scarf, used it to stop the bleeding. And the signature long black trench coat. Good to know I wasn’t the only one to see him at least.” John trailed off, staring past Mike’s shoulder at the spot where he’d seen the young man that morning.

“Ahem,” Mike blushed at hearing his client speak of another man so romantically. “Well should your hero make himself known, I will send him your-- _our_ gratitude.”

“Yes thank you, Mike. I should very much like to thank him.”

“But of course. Evening, John. Take care.”

In the days that followed, John saw the stranger three more times. Each vision fleeting and dismissed as a combination of fantasy and morphine. John was ready to give up and relocate the man to the world of dreams and missed opportunity. Until finally, on the morning he was to be discharged, the injured author awoke to a shadow standing at the foot of his bed.

A tall man, slender like his stranger but older, was flipping through his medical chart and taking notes. He was not dressed in a doctor’s scrubs, but instead wore a finely tailored camel suit and paisley olive waistcoat. John stilled and attempted to feign sleep as he watched the man replace his chart and turn to face him.  He watched deft fingers secret the moleskin to an inner pocket.

“I know you are awake and that you can hear me, Mr. Watson. So, I will make this quick. My name is--”

“Mycroft!” a familiar baritone hissed from the doorway. “What do you think you are doing here?”

“Brother dear,” the older man turned, a smug smile playing across his face. “I could ask you the same thing. Skulking about the building for four whole days.”

“I wasn’t skulking,” the younger man huffed, stepping into the room to stand nose to nose with his brother.  His stranger had returned once again.  Still wearing the long black trench coat, but the blue scarf was rolled up and sloppily hanging from his pocket. “Answer me or leave.”

“As you wish,” The man called Mycroft turned back to John, nodded in farewell and stepped around his younger sibling, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll see you in court, Mr. Watson. Ta.”

“Oh do piss off already,” the younger man growled at the retreating form of his brother before turning back to face John. The author was frozen and speechless, confused by the scene that has transpired and the face of his savior now staring down at him in waiting. _Who were these two men? Why were they in his room and what exactly did the older redheaded gentleman mean by his parting words?_

“Court?” John managed to blurt out from his jumbled thoughts.

“Yes,” the stranger began, stepping around to stand at John’s side and pick up one of the tabloids.  He held it up, pointing to the cover story about the stabbing as he spoke. “It appears my brother is representing that reprehensible slime of a woman who attacked you. He will do anything for the prestige. Shame you had to be someone mildly famous. The press frenzy from the case alone was enough to attract vultures like him.”

“And who is he exactly? Actually, back up, who are you?  And what do you mean _mildly_ famous?”

Flustered, the young man stiffened and blushed. He dropped the paper and held his hand out in awkward greeting. “Apologies, I am Sherlock Holmes.  Do not mistake me, Mr. Watson, I am a fan of your work. That was my older brother Mycroft of _Holmes &Milverton_ notoriety. You have perhaps heard of them?”

“No.. no I haven’t,” John stuttered out, taking the young man’s hand and reveling in the soft palms, the milky white skin that looked like it would be cool to the touch but was so very warm. He looked up from their joined hands and met the silver eyes of his dreams. Losing himself in them as he spoke. “Nice to meet you Sherlock Holmes. I am John Watson, but you may call me John.  I believe I owe you thanks and perhaps... coffee?”

John smiled in hope, reluctantly letting Sherlock drop the handshake. Dark curls shifted as he arched an eyebrow in amused confusion. “Coffee?”

“Yes, Coffee, Sherlock,” John said again. God did he love saying that name. Now that he had it, it was a treasure savoring every syllable in his mouth and on his tongue. “I am to be discharged today. Would you allow me this small act of gratitude for my hero?”

“I uh… that is.” Sherlock fumbled with his words, frowning as he settled on a response. “I am busy today. The entirety of this week actually.” John’s face dropped. He had scared the guy off. He should have known better than to hit on a fan so blatantly. Sherlock was probably starstruck and unsure of how to respond.

“Look Sherlock, I didn’t mean to--” John was cut off by a smile and business card magicked from the long black coat. The Holmes brothers certainly shared an affinity for hidden pockets.

“Coffee would be amicable. Call me on Tuesday, John.” In a whirl of blue and black the man was gone. John was left holding a simple white card that read _Sherlock Holmes - _020 5646 2212 -_ Consulting Barrister.  _ His heart ratcheted against his ribs in anticipation. It was going to be a very, very long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry a million times for the long delay. I debated some details on where to proceed with this story and had to do a lot of research regarding the UK Legal system. <3 I think the destination is much clearer now. Enjoy!
> 
> Faux Daily Mail with John's old Army photo:  
> 


	3. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siblings are never quite as helpful as they imagine.

John paced in his study, blue flannel dressing gown swinging open over day old clothes. He stopped to eye his bookshelf, absentmindedly scratching at bandages and huffing in frustration as he turned to look about the room for something, anything to kill the time. His laptop sat unopened, no motivation to respond to emails or write anything for that matter. Mike handled the press release so John had no reason to communicate with the outside world. The curtains were drawn, throwing the room into muted shadows as he settled into his well worn reading chair and pulled a random book from the shelf to his right. Just shy of 48 hours since his discharge and the paparazzi camping across the street showed no sign of thinning.

Switching a lamp on, John flipped his selection over and eyed the cover. A smile spread across his face, cheeks tight and eyes sparkling. Wilkie Collins’ _The Moonstone_ , the original copy from his father’s library adopted by John in primary school after his first read through. Dog-eared and well worn from years of adoration, it was still one of his favorite books. He often credited Collins as one of his earliest writing influences. Lost in decision whether to read the story for over the hundredth time, John did not hear his front locks disengage. The gentle footfalls in his front hallway unregistered until plastic rustling in the doorway pulled him back.

“I’m back Johnny.” Harriet called out, holding up takeaway bags. “I’ve brought curry.”

_____  
Sherlock paced in his sitting room, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair mussed, eyes heavy with a night spent avoiding sleep. His body shook as he stood before the open window, several cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes coursing through his veins. Frustrated, Sherlock forced himself to sit back at his desk, open his laptop and attempt to study. But case studies and hypothetical clients were the farthest thing from his thoughts. The case of John Watson was far more intriguing.

Shutting his laptop in defeat, he resumed pacing. Muttering to himself and mulling over every detail of the stabbing. In his mind he reconstructed the crime scene, his vantage point from the autograph line. Mary leaning into John’s space, attempting to flirt. Sherlock’s recreation flashed red for a beat, the surge of emotion hardly registered before it was filed away for later examination. Simulacrum Sherlock paced the frozen bookstore, walking between the crowd, past himself and towards the signing table. He paused beside Mary, looking her over, taking in every detail. The single pearl necklace, red peacoat, well worn three no four years old. Small bulge in the pocket. Switchblade, new purchase. Traces of blue ink on her hands, matched by small smudges on her copy of John’s book. The slowed scene resumed progress and a camera flashed behind him. Metal gleamed, sharp and blinding in Mary’s hand. Sherlock could see it just as he had before. His shadow self bolted from the line of fans, jumped the velvet rope and tackled the woman.

“Sherl-- oh,” Mycroft entered the small study and froze. His brother stood before an open window, eyelids blinking in rapid succession, hands flying about conducting a puppet show only he could see. Resigned to wait, the elder Holmes grabbed a random book from the bookshelf and settled into a worn leather chair by the fire. _Collected Adventures of The Faceless Detective. Dull._

_____  
John leaned back in his chair watching Harry unpack supper. She was talking, always one to fill the silence with empty banter, but he wasn’t listening. He fidgeted in his seat, trapped between her yammering and his hunger. Business as usual. He hadn’t had a proper conversation with his sister in years. John let his mind wander, keeping his ears open for any hint of a question, remembering to grunt neutral responses in sparse intervals.

He thought about how long it had been since he’d last had a good curry. How his mother used to bring them takeout after work from his favorite shop around the corner. The name long since forgotten, but the memory brought back a warm feeling nonetheless. He was forgetting her face now. Her various cardigans amalgamated down to that one grey jumper with pink cats woven in. Her perfume was a musky scent, brand forgotten, but he could remember the bottle. Tall thin, curved like a tulip. Maybe it was a floral scent. Opening his mouth to ask Harriet, John realized she was glaring.

“Johnny? Are you listening?”

“Sorry, I was just trying to umm.. do you remember what perfume mom wore?”

“Really? How many meds have they got you on?” Harriet dropped the employment fliers she’d been holding and tilted her head at a slight angle, squinting and sizing him up.

John always thought she looked more like a barn owl than a concerned sister in that pose and laughed despite himself. He wanted to be mad at her. Stack of unnecessary employment papers littering his table and Harriet rambling about updating his CV. “Susan says there are loads of new jobs in the city. John are you listening? You can’t just sit around the house all day. It’s bad enough you’re single and now you’re unemployed.”

John flustered, red-faced and angry, dropping his spoon with a graceless plop. “I’m not bloody unemployed, are you seriously... Jesus, Harry, I am just on a break.”

“You’re not some eighteen year old kid backpacking across Europe, Johnny, you’re thirty-two years old! This is just some... midlife crisis or something.”

“Oh my god.. are you.. I am not having a midlife crisis, Harry. I am just taking a sodding break!”

“Writing isn’t even hard, and you only write one book every other year, why would you need a break?”

“Because I do! Why are you harassing me about this?”

“I’m not harassing you, I just, look, I’m worried.”

“Well stop it.” John was hyperventilating, knuckles white and clenched beneath the table clutching his trembling knees, resisting every urge to overturn supper all over the papers and storm out. But it was his house and if anyone should be buggering off it should be his sister. “Listen, Harry, if you must know, I am taking a break to find new inspiration. I can’t keep writing these dark stories. Frankly, I don’t like where they take me and what it brings out in me. I just can’t do it anymore, okay?” He paused, calming breaths, counting down from ten then twenty, waiting for a reply.

Harry looked up, genuine concern betraying her empty scoff. “Is this the PTSD thing? Do you need to talk to Ella again?” She began fishing through her purse, “I think I still have her card if you--”

“Oh my god Harry, Jesus, just please drop it and let’s eat, yeah?” John shoved a spoonful of curry into his mouth staring through the table, willing a hole to eat its way through the conversation, through the floorboards and swallow him whole.

_____  
Sherlock returned to himself, distracted instantly by the familiar smell of low tar cigarettes and bitter Earl Grey. Still staring out the window he greeted his unwelcome guest through gritted teeth. “Mycroft. I do hope you’ve managed to leave my book index intact despite your pawing.”

“But of course, brother mine.” Mycroft pulled a smug smile, tossing the book down in a haphazard puff of debris, “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your precious dust.”

“Is there a purpose behind this visit?”

“Milverton. He is concerned about your focus and as the doting brother of his imminent underling, I swore to attempt a discussion about your future plans.”

“So your precious spot on the Queen’s Council was threatened and you decided it was best to drop by and harass me.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, defiant and angered for the briefest flicker before forcing his features back to a mask of calm impassiveness. “I am your brother, my concern is not entirely based in utility.”

“Right,” Sherlock smirked, turning back to the open window to light another cigarette. If he was to have this conversation for the nineteenth time, there was no reason to do so unaided. He took a long drag, letting the burn rip through him, before pursing lips and breathing slowly into the cool night air. “So what did you and your cohort gossip about this time?”

“Sherlock, you are twenty-seven years old. This petulant child act should have ended in primary school. It is time you took your studies and your employ seriously. Charles and I have pulled more than our fair share of favors to accommodate your... quirks.”

“My, what?” Sherlock choked on smoke, turning to stare at his brother in a decidedly non-petulant manner.

“You need to stop playing around with this pathetic... hobby of yours, Sherlock. Playing barrister when you’ve been afforded every opportunity to be one for real. Actually help people rather than getting in the way.”

“I _am_ helping people, or has old age scrubbed that part of your memory? Just last month I stopped Mrs. Miller being falsely imprisoned. Oh that’s right, it was your client who was attempting to incarcerate her. How could I possibly forget?” Sherlock glared down at his brother, daring him to bring up their tired old debate about how morality has limitations when reputation is on the line. How Sherlock was oh so lucky to even be offered a post with the very legal house he attempted to undermine at every turn.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deep measured doses of oxygen to sate his throbbing temple. “Charles and I just believe--”

“Charles. Listen to you, so chummy now that he’s made you his personal lap dog. Am I to expect a happy announcement soon?” Sherlock paused, eyes going wide in mock shock. Hand flying to his chest, trailing smoke and ash in its path. “Oh my, brother dear! Does Gavin know you’ve traded up for a luxury model? He’ll be rather cross I imagine. Probably a bit hurt too. The simple are so easily broken by betrayals of the heart. Shall I ring him up and--”

“Sherlock, enough!” Mycroft was red faced and scowling, his mask slipped askew to flash rare emotion.

“Ah, there he is. The flesh behind the metal facade.” Sherlock grinned in triumph and returned to the window for an indulgent victory drag.

“Just stay away from this John Watson case. You are too invested, personally. I don’t want to make a public spectacle of you, but if I must choose between my own brother and my career…” Mycroft’s eyes were sad behind his reappropriated mask. The heft of too many danger nights weighing upon him. For once he was glad to be speaking to his brother’s back, avoiding those prying eyes. “You, of all people, should know which way that pendulum swings. I’ll see myself out.”

Sherlock stilled on the window sill, watching the last embers die from his cigarette. He waited for the door to slam and signify his brother’s exit before turning around. He knew very well which path Mycroft would choose. Some things never change.

______  
John curled into himself on the sofa, trying to find solace in the peace of an empty house and vacated press vultures. Harry had blessed him with a solid five minutes of silence to enjoy his curry before she started in again. Needling him about his injury was the final straw and he’d finally thrown her out without so much as a thank you for the food or her concern. John was lucky to have an older sister who cared so much about his wellbeing if her string of bitter text messages were to be believed.

She had flayed him, poking and prodding in her careless concern. The veteran of Kandahar shivered and pulled himself tighter against the chill of his memory. Staring across the room at the fireplace, willing warmth from the embers, his eyes dilated and went dim. John was in the sand again, curled into his side, clutching at an injury sustained many years ago and thousands of miles from home. His hands grasped across the sofa, knuckles white and shaking, head tossing violently.

“Please. No!” John jerked back violently, falling to the floor, waking him from the daze. His breaths came in stuttered gasps, cursing himself for the new pain blooming from his ribcage, reminding him where and when he was. Quick inspection of the bandages showed fresh blood stains and the former soldier mentally kicked himself.

Suddenly thankful for the bottle of wine Harry had left behind, John dragged himself to the bathroom to tend to his reopened wounds.

_____  
Sherlock sulked in front of the fireplace. Burning bits of legal documents nicked from his brother over the years. Old case files. Forged identification papers. Crime scene images. Nothing he couldn’t easily replace, but anything to inconvenience the man.

In his mind, the lanky genius replayed John’s stabbing. The angle of attack, the moment before he tackled the assailant. He was so sure he had seen something before Mycroft interrupted. Something in Mary’s face. John’s face. Distracted again by those eyes, so open and trusting. Sherlock was overwhelmed with a desire to protect the man from harm. Shaking his head to refocus priorities, Sherlock barely heard his phone beeping from across the room.

**Hello Sherlock. This is John Watson. Are you busy?**

_Evening. Do you need to reschedule your gratitude latte? SH_

**Sorry. I know it’s only Friday. But between the press and my sister’s bedside manner, I am growing a bit restless. J**

_Understandable, siblings are never quite as helpful as they imagine. Am I to serve as a distraction then? SH_

**Give me something to look forward to? Where would you like to meet on Tuesday? J**

_Actually, do you mind if we meet sooner? SH_

**For you, I am available any time. J**

_Tomorrow, 8pm. Speedy’s on Baker Street, know it? SH_

**Yes, I am familiar with the area. Is their coffee to your liking? J**

_It’s adequate. I mostly wish to speak with you. SH_

**Oh? Anything important? J**

_It can wait. Get your rest, John. SH_

**Yes, nurse. See you tomorrow then. J**

_I look forward to it. SH_

**Sherlock? J**

_Yes? SH_

**Thank you. J**

_Anytime. SH_


	4. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee is never just coffee, is it? Looks like John and Sherlock will be heading back to the hospital, together this time.

The shop was small, almost swallowed in a bright red awning proclaiming the diner’s name. Beneath the banner were large glass windows covered by sun faded menus and hand painted advertisements. He should be able to hide here, tucked in a quiet street under a row of flats. John ducked inside and looked around. A handful of staff bustled about and two patrons sat up front. The two women leaned in to whisper as he walked past and John froze a moment considering them. Their awkward banter and poorly disguised flirting assured him it was a first date and he moved on. Sherlock waved to him from a small table in the back.

“Nice sunglasses,” Sherlock teased beneath a smile. “You do however, know it is eight in the evening, right?”

“Sorry,” John blushed, pulling the glasses and floppy hat from his head. “Paparazzi don’t sleep.”

Sherlock grew visibly upset, peering past him through the glass. “Are they still harassing you? We can go someplace else if--”

“No,” John waved the offer away and settled into a red vinyl chair opposite the young man. “It’s okay, I wasn’t followed.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this. I could draft up a restraining order for you. Get them off your doorstep at the very least.”

“Sherlock,” John reached across the table to catch a fidgeting hand, “Really, I’ll be fine. Thank you. Now, I believe I owe you a coffee.” He let his fingers trail a bit as Sherlock’s hands settled before opening a menu. “So, what’s good here?”

“Only ever sampled the coffee,” Sherlock shrugged apologetically. His hands felt warm and tingling where the older man’s fingers had been. “Food is not really my area. No known deaths or infestations as far I can tell,” he said matter-of-factly after looking about with careful consideration.

John paused, slowly lowering the menu. “Well, that’s.. good. Coffee it is then.”

Sherlock answered with a smile, waving the waitress over and placing their order. John used the distraction to look the man over. He was dressed all in black. silk button up under a perfectly tailored suit. Top two buttons open to that gorgeous tower of pale flesh he called a neck. Same beautiful head of hair, effortlessly styled into a permanent state of soft bedhead ruffle. Though his eyes were duller than John remembered, dark circles betraying a night of restless sleep. And his lips, dear god those lips. They were moving. John blinked. Had Sherlock been talking to him?

“Sorry?”

“I was inquiring your coffee preference, John. White no sugar, just like your tea, I presume.”

“Umm.. yes. That’s. Yes,” he stammered. But before he had time to wonder how the man seated across from him could possibly have known that, he was interrupted by a laptop booting up and Sherlock sliding his chair around to sit beside him.

“Now, this is what I wanted to show you.”

John watched the younger man open a website. A popular fan forum for the Faceless Detective he knew by name thanks to a few prying interviews with tactless hosts. He cringed. John Watson, at the behest of his publisher and sanity, had made it a point to avoid his fanbase online. In person was one thing. Recent stabbing excluded, live events were usually upbeat, secure and enjoyable. But the internet, there was no reigning that in with regulations. Not that he didn’t enjoy the gifted fan works over the years and the free publicity. But the drama. And the gossip. He just had no interest in fueling those particular fires.

“I know you keep away from this side of the fanbase, but Mary was well known online so I did some reading last night and found this.”

Sherlock leaned back, turning the laptop towards John so he could read along. “Forum post dated one month before your attack. User and forum moderator M. Blackwood posted this thread asking readers if anyone else had contemplated suicide after reading _The Final Scrape_.”

“What?” John was speechless. He could feel the wave of nausea take over, lightheaded and blurry eyed as he strained to hear Sherlock’s words over the rush of blood throbbing in his ears. _Suicide? Surely no one had been that upset._ Morbid curiosity took over and he scrolled through the replies. Thirty six pages in and John’s coffee sat cold and untouched. He was completely absorbed in his readers detailing sleepless nights, depression and suicidal thoughts after the death of a fictional detective. He felt an ice developing deep in his gut, guilt taking root. Words blurred on the screen and he stopped scrolling. Hands shaking, John went pale.

“John?” The man so addressed blinked and pulled his gaze from the screen. Sherlock’s hands fidgeted about his drained mug. His face a sombre frown. “What’s happened? Did you see something?”

“I,” John struggled to find the words. Heat finding its way back to frigid flesh. Pinpricks left in the wake of an embarrassed flush. “I had no idea they‘d be so... affected.”

Sherlock forced a reassuring smile and closed the thread. “John, listen. I grew up reading you. Almost every night with a duvet overhead and a flashlight balanced on my shoulder. For many of us, the Detective was more than a man who solved crimes. He was an escape. A hope. As a mirror for myself, I wanted him to have a happy ending even though, logically, I knew it wasn’t in the subtext. You set him up to die alone. Right from the start.”

“Did I now?” John scoffed at the presumption that he could be so clever and foresighted. “I don’t remember deciding to push him off that cliff before last Summer.”

“Maybe not consciously, but it was there John. I was not pleased to see him go, but a small part of me always knew how it would end. I think some readers just ignored the signs or didn’t notice them and were taken by surprise. It was a gut punch for a lot of people who felt like you had not just killed the character, but a part of themselves as well. Many dealing with the shock in unhealthy manners it appears.”

“You could have warned me,” John laughed bitterly, giving Sherlock a nudge of elbow. “Changed my mind maybe. Could have avoided this whole thing.” He gestured to his rib cage where the stab wound now pulsed with renewed vigor. He’d brought this on himself. John frowned, looking back to the laptop for answers. Sherlock fell silent, watching as John clicked through Mary’s other posts, and finally her profile. “Hang on,” John sounded surprised. “Says here she joined just under six months ago. Right after the book was published.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said in a way that John was sure meant he was supposed to understand some shared A-ha moment. But nothing came to mind. He stared, waiting for the man sat beside him to explain. “She is the London chapter president of your fan club, correct?”

“Yes. Mike said but, I just assumed she was a rabid fan gone off the end or something. Maybe annoyed I didn’t return her… attention.”

Sherlock snorted, hands attempting to reign in a laugh as he looked John over. Reevaluating something about the older man before continuing. “Your publisher was correct, Mary is the current president of your fanclub here. Though she is new to the fanbase, only recently taking over. I did some digging, not much, she made little to no effort to cover her tracks, and it seems she rode in on the coattails of the previous president who handed the position over when he left.” Sherlock leaned in to John as he shifted to type in the address bar and pull up a new site. The heat of their thighs brushing for the briefest moment beneath the table was enough to send small shivers up John’s frame.

“There,” Sherlock slid back over, an unhappy chill replacing the shadow of his accidental caress. “Last November, just one month after your book was published, Mary made her first appearance online with a new blog. John stared. The site looked quite professional. He clicked through a few sidebar links, pulling up lengthy metas breaking down character traits, subtext, even the foreshadowed death of the Faceless Detective. He turned to Sherlock, eyebrows arched in question. “I am smart, John, but I am not alone. You weren’t that subtle.”

John opened his mouth, ready to rebut the assumption he could have possibly conceived something so many years ago but a shadow fell between them. The stench of one too many pub crawls reaching their noses before the drawl of a question was deposited thick and wet in the air. “Wh-whar’s thell ..oooo? ay-T,” the sharp tee was followed with spittle and Sherlock swiftly shut his laptop in a moment of motherly protective instinct. Looking up he scowled at their intruder. “Excuse me?”

A redhaired man swayed against their table, jostling utensils and mugs, sloshing John’s forgotten drink. His eyes smiled a bit too easily over a broad yellow grin framed by the matted bristles of an unkempt beard, two maybe three weeks old. Scowling a moment, he decided Sherlock was not worth addressing, and instead turned to John. “I fuck-ing said. The. Loo. Mate.”

John shrugged, he’d never been to the diner before. Looking to his left, silent pleas exchanged with the younger man. _Say something. Sherlock, please._ Sherlock winked and flashed John a reassuring smile. “To your right, end of the corridor. Maybe wash that mouth out while you’re back there.” The man pushed off, regained his balance and stumbled two steps away before stopping. Delayed insult taking root. “Oi, Fu -you mate,” he rumbled. Growls and muttered complaints following him all the way back to the restrooms.

A shared expelled breath of relief fell between them. Followed by a knowing stare, raised eyebrows and a fit of giggles. “Oh, Sherlock!” Another interruption. John was beginning to dislike this location after all. In a beat Sherlock was on his feet and greeting an older man in uniform, pulling a chair out and introducing them. John felt a pang of jealousy and stamped it down, deciding the man was nearly old enough to be Sherlock’s father and was not a romantic partner, previous or otherwise.

“John, this is Bailiff Lestrade, works up the street at the courthouse.”

“Greg, please,” the man said offering his hand. “And I know who you are, Mr. Watson. All anyone’s been gossiping about this week. No worries though, my lips are sealed,” he promised with a flirty wink.

“Nice to meet you, Greg. You can call me John,” the writer smiled. He saw something like a shadow pass briefly over Sherlock’s face as he walked back around the table, but in a curt nod it was gone replaced by a subtle pout. John dropped the handshake just as Sherlock took his seat beside him, visibly sulking.

Arms crossed, it was clear the time for civil niceties had passed. “So, Gregory, what brings you down here? Donut run?”

“Myc-er.. your brother asked me to get coffee. He’s been pulling late nights lately, needs the extra boost.”

“Ah yes, his tireless toiling to make sure the woman who stabbed my date gets off with a warning.”

John felt his mouth go dry as the temperature of his face violated every known law of biology. Had Sherlock just, did he? Date? Sherlock must have noticed because he quickly stammered for words to cover his tracks. The awkward silence palpable between them when Greg graciously changed the subject.

“So, Sherlock I hear you’ve been offered a position with--”

“You!” the slur and stench had returned from his trip and now stood pointing a finger at the seated bailiff. John saw a familiar flash and reacted on instinct, diving across the table to knock Greg to the floor as a shot rang out. Everyone scattered, screaming as the bearded assailant threw his gun aside in frustration and took off running. John looked down at the man beneath him to find a face contorted in pain.

The next moment played by in slow motion, sounds and voices all muted and distant. He heard someone calling for help. The dull scrape of chairs and tables pushed across linoleum. _This is what drowning sounds like_ , John thought. Beneath him he smelled before he saw, blood. Greg groaned as John shifted off of him. Looking down, John paled, staring at the red of his palms in disbelief. Amber eyes were looking up to him in gratitude. “John, my leg. That’s where the pain is.”

“John,” Sherlock rushed back to his side pulling time back into proportion. John looked up, confused. Sherlock was flushed, breathless. Had he been running? “I tried.. couldn’t catch him. Is Lestrade. Is he--”

“I’m alive. But, Sherlock, that was… James Woodley.” The name was barely a whisper as Greg grew drowsy. Something passed between them, a secret understanding, and John knew the situation had grown dire. Looking to Sherlock for an explanation he found the young man gone again. Across the room now, searching for then finding the abandoned weapon. Opening the cylinder he dropped out two bullets. At first glance, they appeared to be normal .45 mm rounds. But each tip was sealed with a thin blue wax. Sherlock’s hands shook and he tossed the curious bullets down in frustration, standing to pace the diner. “Dammit!”

John checked Greg was still breathing and stood, walking to where Sherlock paced with hands wringing through his sweat slick curls. “Sherlock, tell me what is going on. I want to help but I cannot help if you don’t talk to me.”

“They’re poisoned,” silver eyes flashed in anger. “The bullet in his leg, it.. he will die before the ambulance can get here.” A young man looked up from where he stood by the front counter, cell phone still to his ear. “Yes. Thank you. Goodbye. They said it would be fifteen maybe twenty minutes. What do you mean he’ll die?”

Sherlock and John did not answer. Instead turning together to look at the mess before them. Tables were pushed aside, chairs knocked about. Sherlock’s laptop not saved from a forgotten mug of coffee. John set his jaw. Nodded briefly to himself in decision then turned to the panicking young men before him. Sherlock was frozen by the rigid mask settled over John’s once warm features, unable to process the change when the strange face began to speak.

“Sherlock, go to the kitchen and get their sharpest, smallest knife and an unopened bottle of alcohol.”

Blinking, still a bit confused, Sherlock’s mind took a moment to catch up before asking, “Any particular liquor?”

“Something clear. Just unopened, please and hurry.” Sherlock took off and John turned to the busboy who had phoned the ambulance. He snapped his fingers in the young man’s face grabbing his attention. “You there, umm, sorry.”

“Sam.”

“Sam,” John pushed three tables flush together and swiped aside all contents to the floor in a noisy clatter. “Help me get him up here and then,” he paused, eyes darting around for a moment. “This place has a first aid kit, yeah? Fetch it.” The boy nodded, quickly assisting to lift and settle the injured man across John’s improvised workspace before darting to the back office. John shoved aside chairs, clearing the path for a gurney and pulling up an additional table for his tools. He carefully rearranged Greg, pulling small moans of discomfort from the man. Lips pursed in concern for a moment as he watched the gold eyes grow glassy and wet with frustration. Lestrade’s attention flitted between the ceiling and a blocked view of his leg.

“Stay with me Greg, you’ll be okay, just lie back. Here.” John pulled his coat from the back of the toppled red chair and folded it beneath the fallen bailiff’s head. “Talk to me, it’ll help distract you. Okay?”

“Okay,” the man croaked out, his voice already tainted with panic.

“Tell me how long have you known--”

“John, here, what else do you need?” Sherlock reappeared, placing a small paring knife and fresh bottle of vodka on the side table. Before the man could answer, Sam yelled from the back, “I can’t bring the first aid kit!”

“Why not?” John frowned, picking up the vodka to remove the outer foil seal.

“Wall mount, sir.” John felt himself stiffen and stand a bit taller at the unexpected moniker. Sherlock’s ears reddened in a deep flush but thankfully no one was paying him any attention.

“Sod this,” John handed Sherlock the bottle and walked back. Seconds later there was a loud screech of metal and a pop as John, retired Captain Watson thank you very much, ripped the case off the wall and brought it back to his workspace. Sam and Sherlock both stood, silenced by admiration and watched.

“Okay, let’s see what we have to work with,” John pawed through the cabinet’s jostled contents. “Oh good,” he smiled, pulling out a pair of shears, tweezers, several packets of gauze and a few butterfly bandages. John slammed the cabinet shut with a snap and handed it back to the stunned busboy. “Thanks. Now let me know when the ambulance gets here.”

“Y-yes sir,” he nodded before setting the case aside and running out front.

Sherlock couldn’t contain the nervous energy bubbling beneath his skin. John was busy cutting the trousers from Greg’s injured leg and he was just standing there, being useless. “I want to help. Let me help.”

“Right. Yes, good. Keep Greg talking, okay?” John looked up, shears in hand and smiled. A detached physician’s smile. The sort you see on doctors right before they tell you they’ve done all they could. Sherlock shivered but did as he was told.

“Lestrade. Lestrade can you hear me?”

“Nnnn yes. Hey. Hi.”

Sherlock’s face softened. “Hello. So… what did you come to the diner for? Coffee you said, right?”

“Oh,” Greg squeaked as the cold metal brushed his bare skin, right thigh nearly exposed. “Umm yes. Coffee for Myc. No sugar he said. Silly diet. I told him he doesn’t. He’s not. But you know how he insists.”

“Yes, quite persistent,” Sherlock smiled.  All comfort and familiarity.  Greg tried to paint a smile on but his face was too tired to cooperate.

Conversation halted a moment as all three men watched the blood soaked strips of trousers peeled back to reveal the damage. John poked the entry wound tentatively. “The bullet isn’t too deep. Think our table took the worst of it, luckily. Okay,” he clapped his hands to focus then grabbed the vodka and removed the cap. “Sherlock, you’re going to want to hold him still. Greg, this is going to hurt like hell but I need you to stare at the ceiling and try to remember your favorite song. All the lyrics. And... Go.” John poured the alcohol out liberally coating the entire wound and surrounding skin. Greg groaned and bit back a scream as Sherlock’s grip on his leg and hip tightened.

He was halfway through the lyrics to _The Sound of Silence_ when Sherlock finally loosened his hold and stepped aside. John had filled a pint with more alcohol and was soaking the tweezers and knife while he poured the remainder of the bottle over his own hands. With a nod, he directed Sherlock back to his position and waited for Greg to resume the calming chant before proceeding.

“Silence like the cancer grows…” Greg closed his eyes, not willing to see any hint of movement as John used his makeshift scalpel to widen the point of entry and better expose the bullet for extraction. He’d never actually been shot before. Everything was new and horrible. He would have to remember that. Tell Myc later how new and horrible this all felt.

“Hear my words that I might teach you,” Sherlock joined in, encouraging the injured man to continue his distraction for them both. “Take my arms that I might reach you,” Greg answered back. Sherlock carried on, whispering along and watching John work. “But my words like silent raindrops fell. And echoed. In the wells of silence.”

John hummed softly along as the two men finished the recitation and began anew. By the song’s second playthrough the bullet had been extracted. He held it between them for inspection, Greg smiling deliriously at the small chunk of metal that had threatened to end him. John dropped the bullet into the glass of vodka and stepped back, looking down at his blood stained hands as if they had suddenly appeared there. Sherlock watched as a look of abject horror crossed the man’s face. John rushed off to the loo, calling back, “I’m going to wash my hands proper before the paramedics arrive. Watch him, keep him talking.”

Sherlock hmmed in a half arsed agreement, “Gregory, the song. Once more.” He didn’t wait for an answer before grabbing the glass and dumping the bullet to his palm. Holding it to the light he could see that the blue wax seal was still mostly intact. Though cracked, it had not fully dissolved yet. Relief rushed blood back into his frame until he looked down to find Greg had stopped talking. “Lestrade?”

“John!” Sherlock called out.  The man rushed back, hands still damp. “What, what happened?”

“He’s not, he won’t respond. Is he?” John quickly checked for a pulse, finding one. Faint and thready but there. “He’s okay Sherlock. Just shock finally taking over. Body can only take so much, you know? Hand me the butterfly strips and some gauze so I can close him up.”

“You’re.. amazing,” Sherlock was staring, unmoving. John laughed nervously, hand instinctually going to the back of his neck, eyes falling to the floor. “Nah. Just… watched too many daytime hospital dramas. Being a writer affords you plenty of free time in front of the telly.”

“You don’t need to lie to me, John,” Sherlock offered a soft smile but did not press the topic. Opting instead for silence and handing over the requested plasters.

By the time they had the bailiff safely loaded into the ambulance and on the way to a real hospital for proper care, John had warmed up to the young man seated beside him. Enough to open up, somewhat. “Listen, Sherlock, I’m not a doctor,” he whispered. “Perhaps, in another life, I could have been a doctor. But not in this one.”

Sherlock looked affronted as if he’d been the one disparaged by John’s dismissive remarks. “But you were a doctor. I know about your military service, John. You were a medic for years.”

“No, I just sewed up a few bullet wounds and set some bones. I never saved anyone’s life.” John’s face grew dark with the memory. The lives he couldn’t save. He was never the doctor he wanted to be. The hero he’d hoped the Army would help him become. In the end he came back to London more broken, alone and damaged than when he’d left.

“Well you just saved his.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper. A truth uttered just for John’s ears. But it was loud and clear and honest. John stopped arguing and looked down at the man on the stretcher before them. The rise and fall of his chest. And further down, the cleaned, bullet-free wound still fresh and pink with the reminder that blood still pumped through those veins. He’d done that.

"So," John whispered.  "I'm your date?"  A smile crept up his face as the stiff resolve of his false one melted away.   A soft chuckle answered beside him.  "You caught that, huh?"   

"Yeah."  John wanted to push, inquire what it was Sherlock wanted of him but any further thought was interrupted by tentative fingers reaching out and taking his hand. Grounding him. The weight of the day drained away and John fell pliant, limp, leaning into the warmth beside him. Allowing his eyes to close, he sighed and enjoyed the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has really been a labor of love for me. And I appreciate everyone who's hung around waiting for so long. I will be updating this fic a lot more frequently now as it's my main project again. If people seem a bit OOC try to remember this is an AU and they don't have the same experience they do in the canon. The shooter is a name pulled from Doyle. He's a thug who gives Sherlock a bit of trouble for a while until he gets taken out so expect to see a bit more of him.


	5. Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospitals, older brothers and first kisses

“Sherlock, just let them-- ” John stood behind the man trying feebly to maintain his grip on the black trench and drag his companion back to the waiting room.

“Wait. Here, take this.” Sherlock stopped struggling and pulled an evidence bag from his coat pocket, handing it to the nearest EMT. He set the hapless young man with a steady stare waiting until he had his full attention before continuing. “This bullet was the one removed from your patient’s leg. It contains a small amount of poison beneath the wax tip. The man who shot him is known to use a varied cocktail he changes between crimes. Without proper examination you will not know what to look for in his blood. Take it or let me into your labs and I’ll do the tests myself.” The responder looked down at the bag, turned to John for an explanation but only got a shrug, then back to Sherlock. There was no time to argue and his patient was already being wheeled away. “Thank you. Please wait out here,” he answered curtly, snatching the bullet and jogging after the team rushing Greg to trauma.

“Always carry evidence bags around in your pockets?” John asked, moving a worn copy of _Time_ from the small leather seat. Sherlock made to sit beside him but opted for pacing and looming instead. He stilled just long enough to register the question. “Hmm? Oh yes. Well, no, sometimes. Shut up.”

“Uh huh.” John looked up, took in the six foot shadow standing just beyond arm’s reach. Sherlock appeared much more panicked now that they were in a proper hospital, which would seem odd for anyone else, but John was coming to realize that Sherlock Holmes was not like everyone else. Not at all. He watched as panic changed to realization and Sherlock began patting his pockets, mumbling beneath his breath. Something clicked in the familiarity of his movements and John spoke. “Your phone, Sherlock? It was on the table when my coffee--”

The younger man stilled. Head snapping up to stare past John. “Shit.”

“It’ll be okay, if you have insurance--”

“What the hell are you doing here?” John turned to find Mycroft Holmes barrelling down the hallway. The man looked completely different from the intimidating barrister who had shadowed his bedside. The creases of his steel grey waistcoat and matching trousers testimony to multiple nights spent asleep at his desk. Rolled sleeves over ink stained forearms and tobacco stained fingers. His coat haphazardly tossed over his left shoulder, taking the loosened red tie with it. He looked out of breath, flushed and terrified. The man that stood before them now was no more intimidating than a drowned cat. Ignoring John completely he stopped just inches from Sherlock, attempting to stare his younger sibling down. “Out with it. Quickly.”

“Greg’s been shot in the leg. James Woodley. He escaped but abandoned his weapon at the scene. Dimmock took the gun into evidence along with unfired rounds. Per his signature, the bullet was poisoned but the wax case did not crack. John was kind enough to perform an emergency extraction before the ambulance arrived. Entry wound missed his femoral artery but there was some major tissue damage to his femoris and shrapnel pieces from the table are being removed as we speak. Too early to tell the extent of the muscle damage but I estimate he will be out of surgery and allowed to see visitors in the next three to four hours.”

John watched a myriad of emotion play across the elder Holmes’ features as he took in Sherlock’s summary of their evening. By the end he had grown impossibly pale, smattering of freckles on his cheeks standing out in stark contrast. Mycroft began to shake, slowly lowering himself into a seat opposite his brother and his companion. John watched as Sherlock made an aborted effort to assist him. Pulling back his hand at the last moment into a clenched fist hastily stuffed beneath the trenchcoat. After a long stretch of silence, Mycroft turned to his left and offered John a small smile. His mouth moved around the words “Thank you” but no sound came to give them life.

Sherlock finally stopped pacing and took the chair to John’s right. For nearly an hour neither man spoke. Each pretending to watch BBC World News as the clock pushed past ten. John fidgeted with his cap and sunglasses. Looking about nervously as if someone seeking emergency medical attention would ask for an autograph. _Stupid. Egoist_. He chided himself. Sherlock had taken to poking the remains of his laptop in the hope that his mass of knowledge included electronic repairs. It did not. Thankfully, Mycroft’s assistant showed up with casework and three coffees before tension snapped.

“Thank you, umm,” John smiled, accepting the cup from a tall brunette. He’d stopped trying to figure out how the Holmes brothers just knew how he liked his coffee.

“Anthea,” she offered with a polite nod.

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock answered beside him. “Mycroft has you working late. Bit an abuse of power if you ask me.”

“Good thing no one’s asking you then,” Mycroft said, eyes still glued to his lap full of paperwork. “That will be all, Anthea. Good evening.” And just like that the woman was gone.

John sipped his perfectly prepared dark roast before venturing to speak in a soft whisper. “Are all of your first dates this exciting?”

Sherlock laughed despite himself, pulling a scowl from his brother before quickly clearing his throat and resetting his face. “No, John. Are yours?”

“Now that you mention it, my last date ended in an explosion and triple murder,” he joked.

“Oh really? I would love to hear that story,” Sherlock leaned in, lowering his voice to keep the conversation intimate.

“Well this lovely bloke decided we should go to a live show in Hyde Park. But he didn’t know the entire performance was run by a secret gang of smugglers called the Black Lotus. How could he? Their only identifying mark was a secret tattoo inside the lower lip.”

“Hmm most intriguing,” Sherlock nodded.

“Quite,” John smiled and leaned closer, enjoying his private audience. “So there we were, quite comfortably curled into one another beneath the stars watching these stage acts. Amazing stuff, really, less circus more art. Magicians, fire juggling, even a small comedy troupe. Suddenly, the whole lawn shook and a giant fireball erupted from behind the main stage, ten stories high at least. The crowd was frantic, screaming and running in all directions. Entire stage burned to ash and three lives were lost before the local ladder arrived.”

“Impressive.”

“Oh it was quite memorable,” John winked. “Tonight was boring in comparison.”

“I see,” Sherlock huffed in mock disappointment. “I suppose we’ll just need to find something more nightmare inducing for our second date then. How do you feel about morgues?”

John laughed, forgetting himself, and quickly clamped a guilty palm over his mouth. “Shh we can’t giggle. It’s an emergency room.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock agreed, his own shoulders shaking in a struggle against laughter. “Join me outside for a smoke?”

“Sure.”

Outside they found a quiet corner and an empty bench. Sherlock lighting up as John watched, taking no secret delight in watching puffy pink lips wrap around and grip the cigarette. “Sherlock, your brother he… I mean. He and Greg?”

“It’s complicated. We all grew up together, Mycroft and Greg have always been close. Best friends. But they grew apart in University, attending different schools, with different career goals. I suspect some strings were pulled, after Greg’s divorce a couple years ago. Palms greased to get him back from Cardiff and working so nearby. Though Mycroft will never admit to it.”

John’s smile was soft, sympathetic. He’d seen his own sister fumble through relationships over the years. After everything their family had gone through, he could easily understand wanting to keep certain parts of your life tucked away. He looked the younger man over and took Sherlock’s sudden fascination in the peeling stucco as his cue to change the subject. “So, before we were so rudely interrupted by an attempted murder, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Sherlock laughed, coughing as he choked on a bit of smoke. John patting his back and trying to hold his own laughter in. There it was again, that comfortable moment. “I replayed the events of your stabbing--”

“Replayed?”

“It’s a bit much to explain at the moment but I use a memory technique where I can store information, let’s call it an advanced photographic memory for now. So I put myself back in the moment and looked around for any clue or hint, something that may be able to help your case.”

“Amazing. And you saw something?”

“Yes. Something in Mary’s face right before the attack, she looked past the camera, behind me. I think there was someone with her. An accomplice.”

“Could you see who it was?”

Sherlock looked away, disappointment maring his features. “Sorry, no. It.. it doesn’t work like that. Whoever it was stood in line behind me so they wouldn’t be in my memory.”

“Right, sorry. So what now then?”

“Well if my brother was more open to aiding you, I would get him to file a court order for the store security footage. But after tonight…” Sherlock sighed and leaned against the building.

“Ah,” John moved to stand beside him. Shuffling his feet uncomfortably as Sherlock finished his smoke in silence and stamped the butt out. “Don’t worry Sherlock, we’ll think of something. I’m sure--”

“He’s out of surgery,” a voice interrupted behind them. The EMT from earlier sneaking out for his own much needed cigarette break tossed a weary smile in their direction. “Your friend. He’s clean, no toxins in his blood either. Tenth floor, Room 101D.”

“Oh thank god,” John breathed out. He didn’t realize how worried he’d truly been until the weight was lifted. “Thank you.”

The pair set off for Greg’s room excited to speak with him when Sherlock stopped short. John crashing into his back, mouth open to protest when Sherlock raised his hand to silence him. Slowly he looked past the young barrister through the glass door. Inside the small room Mycroft sat to Greg’s right side, chair pulled up as close to the bed as physical limits would allow. Their hands were laced together on the injured man’s hip, Mycroft tracing a small caress over the back of Greg’s knuckles and murmuring something low and soft for his ears alone.

Sherlock flushed red in embarrassment and quickly ducked away from the door. “On second thought,” he cleared his throat, taking John by the hand and dragging him forcibly towards the lift. “Let’s just go home, shall we? Late night, I have classes in the morning and you have...”

“Hey now, I do stuff,” John whined in a half hearted protest. But he allowed himself to be shuffled from the building and stuffed into a cab.

“Eleven Picardy Place please,” Sherlock directed the driver. John’s mouth fell open as he turned to look at the man sat beside him, for what he could only assume would not be the last time, in complete awe. “How can you possibly--”

“Memory technique and one of your biggest fans. Once I learn something I never forget it.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” John laughed. “Bit unfair. You know everything about me it seems. Must be boring for you.” Sherlock stopped smiling and shifted across the seat to lean in close to John’s face, holding his eyes in a staredown, voice dropping low as he spoke. “I will never be bored of you John Watson. I assure you, I find you very fascinating.”

John felt lightheaded under the scrutiny of that stare, despite all the warnings firing off in his head about crazed fans, stalkers and run of the mill wackos, he was hooked. Sherlock Holmes had crawled into his skin and he was strapped in the for the ride no matter where it would lead. He cleared his throat and dropped the steady gaze before speaking. “I find you fascinating too, Sherlock. I just wish. I want to know more about you too.” Looking up he waited for an answer but only got a smile and a wink before Sherlock looped his arm into the crook of the older man’s elbow and dropped his head to John’s shoulder, nuzzling in with a content sigh and puff of hot breath. John reached up to shift a few stray tendrils before giving in completely and running his fingers through the entire mess of silky curls. The rest of the long cab ride passed in comfortable silence. Sherlock slowly drifting to sleep.

“We’re here,” John whispered softly as they pulled to a stop. He nudged Sherlock from his shoulder and opened his door. “Thank you very much for a lovely--”

“Shh, wait, I’ll walk you to your door,” Sherlock interrupted around a yawn. Sitting up he paid the cabbie and asked the man to wait before bounding up John’s walkway behind him. Backlit in the golden porch light Sherlock looked beautiful. John caught himself staring, dumbfounded and suddenly really really wanting to kiss those lips when they began to move. “John, I would like to do this again, perhaps without the shooting.”

“I would like that. Meeting you outside hospital just once would be nice.” John laughed, hands snaking about the younger man’s waist to pull him in for a hug.

“Smartarse,” Sherlock answered, leaning in, closing the space between them.

 _Fireworks_. Sherlock thought. _How cliche_. But here they were. Sparks flaring in his mind. Tingly burning from lips to groin to toes. John's breath caught in his throat just as his fingers caught in the black trench and Sherlock swiped a tongue across his lower lip. John let him in and a battle of tongues began, slow and soft. Just a tease of exploration before Sherlock retreated and sighed, pulling back with a wet smack. He licked his lips unconsciously. John’s taste still lingering. Sweet and warm. “Mmm..” John hummed, slowly reopening his eyes. “Agreed,” Sherlock greeted blue eyes with a broad grin. “Until next time, John. Good evening.”

John stared for what felt like centuries, watching the lithe form walk away from him, enter the cab and wave farewell. Lowering his waving hand, he let his fingers trace kiss abused lips and settled back against his front door. Dizzy and sated.

Across the street, beyond his vision and hearing, a dark haired man in black packed away his camera equipment and slipped back over the fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is a professional storyteller. He's never been on a date with mobster jugglers. His address is where Doyle was born.


	6. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock hunt down Mary's accomplice while a pair of paparazzi stalk his empty flat.

The following morning was beautiful. Twittering birds had taken to camping just outside John’s bedroom window, waking him with bright chirping melodies. The retired author did not appreciate being forced into a Disney film at sunrise and threw one pillow at the window, another over his head to swallow his agitated sigh. And he’d been enjoying such a lovely dream, too. Sherlock’s lips still fresh in his memory.

Two hours later, John groggily opened his front door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes when a slim form and twin red braids swam into view. “You’re not my paper,” he grumbled.

“Kitty,” the woman offered, handing over his morning edition with her business card and a smile. “Kitty Riley, _Daily Mail_ , Mr. Watson. Care to comment on the rumor floating on Twitter this morning which claims you were at a shooting last night?”

“No,” he answered, snatching the newspaper from her hands and flicking the business card back at her feet. “Now, please leave my property before I have you removed.”

“No you don’t care to comment? No you didn’t witness a shooting? No you weren’t across town? On a date. With a young man,” she quirked her lips at the last comment, daring him to deny her words.

“Just **no** ,” he slammed the door in her face and stormed back inside. _Coffee. I need coffee_.

____

“Sherlock, please sit down before you wear a hole in the carpeting,” Mycroft glared over thin wire rim reading glasses, flipping through his brother’s proposal to release the bookstore security footage. “I am sure Charles will join us shortly.”

Before the younger Holmes could open his mouth to retort, the large oak door creaked open behind them. A fidgety young man swept in, wiping the handle with his kerchief and clearing Milverton’s desk. Shuffling papers aside. He left but a moment, returning with a tea trolley and setting a fresh mug and saucer on the large oak desk before slipping back outside. Sherlock watched steam swirl above the china knowing the grey-haired, scowling face of his future employer could not be far behind.

“It would seem, Mycroft,” a voice boomed from the doorway, sucking all other sound from the room, “that little brother of yours may prove his value after all.” The older partner stepped into his office, calculated motions hung his coat, unbuttoned a waistcoat and settled into his overstuffed leather chair. Long, bony fingers noiselessly swirled a spoonful of sugar into his tea. Gingerly he pulled a shallow sip then settled the cup back in place before looking up. Dismissing Sherlock’s presence entirely, the older man turned to Mycroft with an impatient wave of his hand. An outsider would never believe they were equal partners with the look of disdain Milverton fixed on the elder Holmes. “Why are you still here? Sign the paperwork. Find this accomplice and get our client acquitted.”

“Yes, Charles,” Mycroft answered, shifting to sit taller and reassert some amount of the rightful dignity for his position, “right away.” Sherlock fought every urge to burst out laughing at seeing his composed brother growing flustered with embarrassment. He pulled his phone out as a distraction, informing John of the good news.

_Care to see a film? SH_

**Oh? What are we watching? J**

_Your stabbing from four different camera angles. Linden’s, 12pm. SH_

**Sounds exciting. I’ll bring the popcorn. J**

____

Kitty sat across the street, camera poised on her steering wheel, staring at John Watson’s door and willing it to open. She started to resent the door, sturdy wood with a beveled carving and inset viewing window with mottled glass, probably hand carved by some posh designer just for the famous author. _Typical celebrity. Snob_. Movement to the right temporarily distracted her.

A light blue Honda drove past and parked in the street. Kitty watched in boredom fueled curiosity as the driver sat unmoving and staring at the same door she had grown to dislike. The man was small, thin and pale. He pulled down a dark grey hoodie to reveal black hair, messy and unkempt from a night of little rest. He took a long pull from his thermos, eyes closed and savoring the rush of caffeine before reaching to his passenger seat. Kitty watched his movements from three cars back and across the way. She let out a small gasp when his hands reappeared holding a professional camera, complete with high powered scope. _Competition_.

Throwing one last look to the author’s closed front door, Kitty decided to investigate the newcomer. In seconds, she was across the street and tapping on his driver’s side window, startling the poor man. Sheepishly he rolled the glass down and peeked up at her. “May I help you, Miss..”

“Kitty. Kitty Riley,” she said, handing her business card over. Pointing to his gear when the man took it. (And my he was quite attractive up close. Even with a day’s worth of scruff dusting his chin.) “Noticed the camera, thought I’d introduce myself to the competition,” she smiled.

Cautiously, the stranger looked her over, deciding something before pulling out a press pass. “Richard Brook,” he said, “Guardian. But you can just call me Rich.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Kitty squeaked. “I thought you sort were above celebrity gossip.”

“Ask my boss,” Rich shrugged, smiling. “I just go where they send me.” His perfect teeth and crinkled eyes were infectious and Kitty found herself charmed and staring. Before she could speak, the moment was broken by the sound of a slamming door and both reporters snapped up to see a cab pull in front of 11 Picardy Place. John jumped inside before either could even think to lift their camera.

“Dammit,” Kitty muttered as the cab drove past them, their target in tow. She looked down to find Rich staring up at her, sympathetic shrug and that same gorgeous grin. “Care to, um, join me for coffee before he returns?” she asked, hopeful.

In apology, the man raised his thermos and an eyebrow. “Sorry, already covered. Plus if my boss catches me anywhere else, it’ll be my head.”

“Understood. Well I’m off then,” Kitty found her face smiling without permission. “Nice meeting you, Rich.”

_____  
At Linden’s Bookstore, John and Sherlock were ushered to the back office in a flurry of apologies from the general manager, Angelo Piazatti. “Mr. Watson, I am so very sorry. I hope you know we will be cooperating every step of the way to bring this woman to justice.”

“It’s quite alright,” John laughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck and looking to Sherlock with a shy smile. “I know it wasn’t your fault. Can’t prevent everything, yeah?”

The man nodded, showing them to a security room on the top floor where four monitors and a pile of tapes sat waiting. “The printer is here,” he gestured to a small desk in the corner. “The zoom toggle is this lever here. If you need anything else, pick up the red phone there and dial four four. You can get me downstairs.”

John thanked the man again and closed the door behind him. Turning to find Sherlock already settled into a creaky desk chair and fast forwarding the first tape. Pulling a folding chair from the back table, John settled next to him and watched a blur of book toting patrons whisk between shelves and registers. Shadows stretched as the sun quickly made way for darkness. Velvet ropes appeared and employees set up two signing tables, chairs and a stack of John’s last book beneath posters. He watched the signing line forming on screen and Sherlock slowed the tape. Scanning the forming crowd for a blonde head and a red coat.

“There,” he pointed. Mary had just entered the store. Alone. She walked off screen a bit and appeared to be talking with someone. “Camera two,” Sherlock grinned and popped in the second tape. John let a yawn slip as he stretched and watched the taller man fast forward to the correct time on the recording. In his coat pocket John’s cell phone vibrated, ignored.

“Damn, she’s still a bit cut off here,” Sherlock said, pausing the tape and pointing to the screen. Mary stood frozen, shaking hands with a gentleman in a red tee and ripped jeans, about her age and height. He had messy black hair but wore dark glasses obscuring his face. Sherlock printed a few frames just in case then moved forward in the recording to just before the stabbing. Camera two was positioned just above the signing table and facing the front doors where the line had formed. John watched the recorded image of Sherlock fidget with his copy of _The Final Scrape_ and repeatedly check his watch.

“Did you have somewhere else to be?” John teased.

“What, no, I..” Sherlock flushed, turning back to the screen as John’s phone buzzed again. “You should probably get that. Might be important, John.”

“Subject change, real subtle,” John laughed. “It’s probably just Mike or Harry. They can wait.”

On screen Mary leaned over the table, flirting with John. Sherlock’s shoulders tensed watching the scene, knowing what was coming. He waited for the maneuver for a fan photo, then the small nod of Mary’s head and “There,” he paused the tape, pointing to a tall brunette in a blue jumper. “This woman. She is staring directly at Mary and smiling.” Sherlock stood, full of nervous energy and excitement. He sent a few frames to the printer, zooming in on the woman’s face and jumper. The cotton top was a pale blue with an odd sort of white pattern at its center with text beneath, too small to read. Sherlock leaned in squinting, almost pressing his nose to the screen when he jumped back. “I know this logo.. University of Westminster, John.” Sherlock beamed down at him and crossed to the printer to turn it on, impatiently tapping his fingers on the adjoining wall as the old machine booted up. Behind him, John’s phone chirped and the blond sighed.

_John? What’s this on the news about a shooting?_   
_Are you okay?_   
_Answer me._

**I’m fine. J**

_He lives. Afternoon your majesty._

**Shut it. J**

_So, you were on a date huh?_

**Not now Harry. J**

_Is he the one?_

**What do you mean the one? J**

_You know. THE ONE._

“The one? John, you soppy romantic.” John fumbled too late to close his phone and glared over his shoulder. Sherlock wore a smug grin, made worse when the taller man winked and walked away laughing to fetch their printouts.

“Shut up.”

Downstairs, Angelo apologised again and offered to get a folder for the photos Sherlock was sifting through. “Wait,” the man said, suddenly grabbing Sherlock’s elbow and reaching for the top page. “This young lady, she works here. Janine. She wasn’t--”

“She works here?” Sherlock asked, a bit surprised.

“Yes. I will get you her contact information,” Angelo left for his office, shaking his head in disbelief. John and Sherlock shared a shrug, raised eyebrows and stared down at their mystery suspect in consideration. _Had the attack been an inside job?_

_____  
Kitty returned from lunch to find the little blue Civic still sat across from John’s place. Dark haired, scruffy faced Adonis crouched behind the steering column just the way she’d left him hours earlier. _Curious_ , she thought. _Why would The Guardian be sniffing around a celebrity?_ Sure the man had been stabbed a couple weeks ago but that story had passed its shelf life in the mainstream media. Nothing new to report until Mary’s trial started and that wouldn’t be for months. Unless they knew something, inside information perhaps. It wouldn’t be the first time the paper had withheld a lead. Kitty decided Rich Brook’s continued presence was a far more interesting story than John and his date. She parked a block away and (not that she would complain about the endless eye candy) watched the handsome reporter through binoculars.

Huddled in his own car, Rich was getting pissy that John had not yet returned from wherever he had the audacity to bugger off to that afternoon. Desperate to pass the time, he pulled a manilla folder from the glove box and smiled. A leather clad hand traced the finely written lettering of John’s name, reverent. He’d hoped for more time. To hand the little author the photos, watch his face contort with anger and shame. Tilting the open end to his palm, Rich pulled the stack of images out. Twenty three shots in total. Every frame of the kiss from last night.

Rich flipped through the images, scowling at John. Jealous and angry. What did this man deserve of happiness? Of love? It was unfair and disgusting. His ears perked up at the sound of a passing taxi. But it stopped further up the road, no aging author in sight. Groaning he crammed the photos back in the envelope and tossed them into the open glove box, slamming it closed. “Unemployed writer, what the fuck is he doing?” he muttered and reached behind him for a duffle bag.

Just up the hill, obscured from view by an overgrown hedge, Kitty squinted through binoculars as Rich had his fit. She hmmed in curiosity as the man exited his car, a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and walked directly to the author’s front door. She wondered if John had returned home while she was away, but Rich just stood on the stoop, not knocking. Instead, he pulled a small case from his back pocket and knelt before the doorknob. Kitty squeaked in surprise as the man very obviously began picking the lock in broad daylight. For a moment, the redhaired reporter considered alerting the police. But the siren call of her camera rang from the passenger seat and she gave in, snapping photos and reevaluating her taste in men.

_____  
Thanks to Angelo’s directions to Westminster, John and Sherlock located Janine Hawkins with ease. The young lady who answered the door was even more striking in person. Lovely dark curls and piercing eyes threatening to rival Sherlock’s own. She greeted them cautiously at first, unsure why the pair would be on her doorstep. “Mr. Watson? Is that really you? To what do I owe the ple--”

“How well do you know Mary Morstan and in what capacity?” Sherlock interrupted impatiently, sweeping past her to enter the university flat.  The small front room was filled with mismatched furniture, at its center a hideous mottled orange sofa that look like it had been pieced together from stray tabby cats.

“Mary what? Wait, isn’t she the girl who..” Janine trailed off, making a stabbing motion with her hands towards John. He jumped and suddenly aware of what she was mimicking, Janine stammered. “So-Sorry, no. God no. Why, why would I know _her_?”

“Can you explain, then, why you are smiling at her in this security footage?” The impatient taller man held up the printouts accusingly. Janine blushed and mumbled a reply, averting her eyes.

“Speak up,” Sherlock said, “this woman stands accused of attempted murder and unless you fancy joining her--”

“I found her attractive, okay?” Janine shouted in exasperation, settling on her sofa in exhaustion. “Doesn’t matter, even before the... you know, the attack, Jim had already laid claim on her. His damn eyelashes and that smile, irresistible to all the pretty ones. Says he was only asking for a pen, but I saw her slip him a note in his back pocket, her number no doubt. Plus she obviously only likes blokes the way she was laying it on with this one,” Janine gestured to John with her hands. John squirmed, he did not like being referred to as a piece of meat, nor did he enjoy recalling that particular memory.

Sherlock shuffled through the images and handed one to Janine. “The man shaking her hand here, is that--”

“Yeah, that’s Jim,” Janine answered quickly, suddenly eager to help clear her own name. “Or James Moriarty if you need his.. um, legal name. That’s his favorite shirt, worn thin he’s washed it so much. Seb used to--” Janine cut herself off and looked away. “Anyway, I’m rambling. I have his phone number if you like. We used to be flatmates but I heard he dropped out after... last semester. Maybe admissions can help when they reopen tomorrow?” She quickly wrote a number down and handed it over.

“Thank you Ms. Hawkins, you’ve been most helpful,” Sherlock snatched the paper and turned to leave. John turning to shrug an apology for the abrupt departure.

“If you think of anything,” John offered, “your boss has our information.”

In the hallway, the brunet tucked the manilla folder inside his coat and headed for the fire exit when John received a new text alert.

_Pasta tonight?_

**Red. J**

_Wine?_

**Same. J**

Going for full on flirt, Sherlock opted to pluck the phone from John’s palm this time, holding it overhead and out of reach as he read the screen aloud. Pulling an overly dramatic expression of hurt Sherlock scowled down at the blond. “Hot date tonight? Should I be jealous?” John swatted him playfully, snatching the phone back and rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Possessive are we? Was my kissing really all that spectacular?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to blush, flipping his coat collar up and brushing past John to rush downstairs. “Shut up,” he called back over his shoulder, voice betraying a smile.

_____  
Rich slumped into John’s armchair and settled the duffle bag across his lap. He faced the front door and listened for any sound in the house. Finding the inside just as vacated as without, opened the zip of his bag. Skilled hands removed a gun, a clip and a muzzle. Fitting the three pieces together with scarcely a downward glance, he sat back, kicked his feet up on the coffee table and waited, eyes glued to the front door handle, ears tuned to outside traffic.

By nightfall, he had sat unmoving for hours. Bored of playing with his silencer, the scruffy brunet started pacing and digging through John’s shelves. Flipping through books haphazardly, his gloved hands trailing over family photos, flicking the frames over one by one. On the side table next to the other armchair, he saw an old family photo. Presumably the Watson family posing at the beach. His sister looked to be five, John no older than three and beaming ear to ear with a grin that angered Rich to his core.

“You don’t deserve that smile,” the little man said, flicking the photoframe to the floor with a soft crack of breaking glass. “Don’t worry, Watson my dear, I have come to clean up her mess. Little sister was too weak to drive the knife in deep enough.”

In the kitchen, Rich pawed through John’s dishes, searching. Finding the RAMC mug the author was often photographed holding in interviews, he giggled maliciously. Extracting the white mug, turning it overhead to examine the insignia, he held it just above the sink and let go. “Oops,” Rich laughed over the shattered remains, breaking into a new wave of hushed giggling. Cut short with a gasp when when he heard a car pull up.

_____  
Sherlock and John sat in the taxi debating their next move. Janine had indeed called Angelo soon after they left, saying she had dug up some old photos of Jim. Sherlock impatiently stared at his mobile, willing it to beep with new text alerts. He had instructed the woman to send a few his way. “Ah there we are,” he smiled in delight as a familiar chirp echoed in the cab, opening the attached images and turning his phone for John to see.

The first image was Jim wearing the same red shirt, faded Manchester United logo barely visible on the chest. Background furniture revealed it had been taken in the very same flat Janine now occupied. He was sat on the same ungodly mottled orange sofa, leaning into the embrace of a taller young man. Tan, strong build, head full of nearly white blond hair over a perfectly white matching smile. This must be the ‘Seb’ Janine almost mentioned. _Bad breakup_ , Sherlock presumed. A shame really, considering how happy Jim looked in the photo.

The next image was of three people. Seb and Jim in the forefront, arms about one another’s waist, comfortable and mugging for the camera. The taller blonde man wore a ridiculous hat which declared him the birthday boy. A young woman sat in the background in a similar crown, smiling at them. Her face a bit obscured and unfocused. Eyes lost behind long dark hair and sweeping fringe. Sherlock stared at her a while then shook his head, swiping for the last picture.

An old school ID presumably left behind when Jim vanished the previous semester. It was a clear photo, his eyes locked directly with the viewer. Dark, deep pools of endless black. His hair was slicked back with product, no sign of the disheveled bedhead or smile he’d worn in Seb’s presence. Sherlock stared, thinking he could see the appeal. In that face. Despite the shark-like stare, his brother would have no issue convincing a jury the man had charmed his client.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded to himself in decision, “you are staying with me until we find this man.”

“I am?” John laughed in disbelief beside him. Jim looked tiny, he could take him on in a fight easily enough. Age difference or no.

“Yes, John, you are. No one knows who I am or where I live. You will be safer with me. At least for the night. Please?”

John looked up to find a soft smile that didn’t quite reach Sherlock’s eyes. Real concern clouding them instead. “Oh, alright,” John shrugged, caving in to the ridiculous man sat beside him. “Just let me text Harry.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock’s smile found its way up to his eyes, skin pulled taunt in absolute excitement, defining each laugh line. He tapped the glass, waking their bored and dozing driver. “221B Baker Street, Charlie.”

Beside him, John pulled his own phone out. Unable to hide his answering smile as he typed.

**Sorry, love, supper’s off. Staying with a friend. J**

_____  
Harry unlocked the front door just as her phone beeped. “Of all the--” she groaned, pausing in the open door, shifting the shopping to her shoulder to get at her purse.

Two loud pops rang through the silent home and she felt a sharp pain blossom in her back, just between the shoulder blades. Harry’s hands went numb immediately, the wine bag slipping from her slacked grasp, shattering on the porch with a loud crash. The rest of her shopping followed suit, the blonde collapsing last to lie beside her toppled bags. Wine pooling around her head like a halo, strangely comforting in its familiar scent.

John’s porch light appeared to flicker, waves of darkened vision sweeping past Harry’s eyes. The blue growing dim and cloudy like a winter sky. Blinking and struggling to breathe, Harry squinted up as a shadow crouched beside her. A strange man touched her cheek, cool leather gloves offering no comfort. “Fuck,” he muttered then rose and walked over her, out the front door and beyond her vision.

Harry strained to listen. She could hear yelling just outside, a woman’s voice calling out, a car screeching off. Then someone was running, leaning over her, too shadowy now to make out a face, but a calm woman’s voice telling her, “Stay with me, Harriet, I’ve phoned the ambulance.” Harry tried to wonder who this strange woman was who knew her by her full name but it was so cold and she was so tired maybe she could just have a little nap.

The strong smell of marinara pulled her from a deep rest, Harry flicking her eyes open, craning her head sluggishly to see a toppled take out container seeping into the floor just to her left. She watched the steam rising from the pooled sauce, suddenly overwhelmed by the mess on John’s new front walkway. The tiles he had hand picked with her just a few months ago. Harry closed her eyes, the effort to look and think too overwhelming. Sleep much more inviting. Her last thought jumped back to how upset John would be that the red sauce and red wine were ruining his floor. “Johnny,” she whispered to the enveloping darkness, “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see Chapter title. :((((((
> 
> I will not leave you hanging another month, Chapter 7 should be up by Halloween weekend.


	7. Stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And everything was going so well...

Sherlock would later swear he had no ulterior motive inviting John to stay with him. “I am merely concerned for your safety,” he whispered insistently even as John reclaimed his lips and locked the door behind them. But when John Watson has you pinned against your own front door, hands in your hair, tugging ever so gently as he coaxes your lips to open for him and grinds a rather impressive erection against your hip.. well you don’t get into a debate about ulterior motives.

They pushed panting into one another, desperate to close every bit of space left between them, shucking layers of clothing as Sherlock set a strong hand to John’s hip, guiding their activities to the back bedroom. Too much anticipation and sexual tension buzzing between them left both men strung tight and dangerously close. The moment Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around them both it would only take a few strokes before the mixed cries of “Yes” and “John” were mingling hot and wet between them.

Too exhausted for more than a lazy swipe of undershirts, John and Sherlock wrapped around each other and slept.  
_____

“Good morning beautiful,” John stretched and yawned beside the halo of dark curls rousing next to him.

Sherlock smacked his lips, ran a comb of pale digits through his mess of bedhead and groaned. “How very kind of you John, but I feel disgusting.” He rolled over, dropped a small kiss to John’s cheek then hopped from bed. “I need a shower, make yourself at home.”

Before John could object, he was knocked speechless by six feet of pale skin sleepily stumbling for the bathroom. He was mesmerized by the hypnotic sway of Sherlock’s hip’s and that bum. John groaned and flopped back to the pillows, remembering the soft skin beneath his hands, the feel of Sherlock writhing beneath him. _This man is going to be the end of me_ , he chided himself. John laughed and pulled himself from the warm comfort of Sherlock’s ridiculously huge bed. Searching for and finding his jeans in a crumpled heap on the floor. His phone toppled from the pocket as he slipped them on and John mentally kicked himself staring down at the black screen. Dead battery. He looked across the room to Sherlock’s nightstand.

“Sherlock,” he yelled at the bathroom door, “do you have an extra phone charger?”

“Use mine,” the showering man answered back.

Plugging in his phone, thank god they both had the same brand, John settled it on a small table beside a red paisley chair and headed into the kitchen to search through cabinets for tea and sugar. After a few minutes he’d located two mugs, set the kettle to boil and sat staring around Sherlock’s flat. He hadn’t given the space any proper attention last night. A bit too focused on the man himself to care one iota about his furniture. It looked much more comfortable and lived in than John would have predicted. Mismatched furniture that somehow melded together. Mixed wallpapers, colorful curtains and carpeting. Sherlock certainly had a thing for skulls if his livingroom decor was any clue. One on each wall. John chuckled at the headphones propped on the skull across from him, wondering what the poor dead animal was listening to.

As Sherlock finished up his shower and began his daily routine of shaving and fussing over his hair, he could hear the kettle going off and John turning his television on. Sherlock turned back to the mirror and smiled at his reflection, allowing himself to daydream a moment, what life would be like with John here every day. In this place that usually felt so empty and lacking, John was a ball of energy and much needed warmth.

Back in the sitting room, John had set two mugs, milk and sugar on the table. Taking his own mug to the chair he’d decided to lay claim to, he turned his phone on and flipped through the telly. John sipped his tea, and sighed in pleasure, letting the hot beverage relax his coiled frame. _I could get used to this_ he thought idly, a smile worming across his face and pulling thin lines from his eyes and mouth.

Interrupting his reverie, John’s phone started beeping with several missed calls. He laughed and set his mug aside. No doubt his sister had sent at least twenty texts demanding to know everything about his “friend” and just how far they’d gone. Harry had always been a bit forthright with her own dates. Sharing and then oversharing. John was a bit more private, despite decades of his sister trying to pry information from him. He set the television to BBC News then reached for his phone, ready to get a good chuckle. His hand froze, hovering. John’s own name calling him from the telly, he looked up confused.

“Breaking news at the home of author John Watson,” the anchorman said before the camera cut away to recorded footage of John’s house bathed in flashing lights. Yellow tape and police cars. _A burglary?_ But then the next video went up, an ambulance in his drive. A black bag on the stretcher. And the sound of a recorded phone call playing over the footage. John’s ears began ringing, heart racing. He could only hear snippets over the blood rush. “shot… is she breathing...” The news anchor was back on, sidebar showing photos of a man in a grey hoodie picking his locks. The scrolling marquee changed and John’s vision swam around two words: _One Dead_.

Panicked, he grabbed his phone. Twenty seven missed calls. Scrolling through the list he saw missed calls from Mike and several newspapers and Scotland Yard and, most disturbingly, Clara. Clara never called him. There were only three texts. All from Mike demanding to know if he was okay. The knot in his gut twist deeper when John realized none of the calls or texts were from Harry.

“No,” he pleaded, voice a broken whisper. He dialed Harry’s phone. No answer. He texted her with no reply. “No no no please god no,” John slipped from the chair, grasping his phone and curling into himself on the floor. He was still shaking and pale when Sherlock found him.

On the telly, Jim Moriarty’s face smiled out at them. The same student ID photo from the night before.  
___

“John?” Sherlock pushed into the flat with the toe of his shoe, in his hands a delicate balance of groceries, mail and keys. “Are you awake?” He didn’t need to check if the man was home. It had been four days since the news of Harriet’s murder and his houseguest had scarcely shifted from the sofa. He walked cautiously to the kitchen table, settling the shopping and dropping to the nearest chair to rest his feet. Looking to the gray sofa he found John still curled into himself, trapped in restless sleep.

Today was the big day. Scotland Yard finished sweeping all available evidence from John’s home and he’d been given the okay to come back. Of course Sherlock insisted the man stay with him for as long as he needed. John nodding solemnly as Sherlock took over the conversation and ushered him into the shower. “I’ll handle everything, just wash up and get dressed,” Sherlock had said. John stared a moment, wanting to speak, his eyes begging Sherlock to understand but there was no fight left inside him to object. Sherlock watched the life drain from him after the very first call with Clara, slowly deflating like a forgotten party balloon until the gentlest push in any direction would set John adrift.

He had watched from the double pane glass as John took a polygraph, answered questions with a frozen face, absorbed all the information they had on Kitty Riley and leads. Only faltering when James Moriarty was mentioned as the primary suspect. John’s eye twitching as Detective Sally Donovan explained to him how Jim had disguised himself as a member of the press before breaking in and shooting his sister. Donovan tried to put it delicately, not wanting to form the words, “we suspect you were the primary target. Your sister was not the intended victim” and instead opting for “Do you know Mr. Moriarty? Do you have any clue why he would attempt to kill you?”

“No,” John answered, barely audible. And Sherlock had to turn away from the broken look that crossed those blue eyes. Realization blossoming, John’s answer no longer related to the investigation. Sherlock had heard that exact ‘no’ just hours before. It was a plea to the universe. _Wake me up. Harry is not dead. Please. No._ Since then, John had become one with Sherlock’s sitting room sofa.

“Afternoon,” John mumbled and stretched standing up. He dragged himself to the shower without another word and returned thirty minutes later fully dressed and waiting. He paused in the kitchen to look down at a plate of toast. Eyes scanning between the dish and Sherlock’s face, waiting for an explanation.

“Breakfast,” Sherlock said handing John a fresh steaming mug, “then we can go.”

The drive out to John’s home was long and quiet. Sherlock found he missed the banter between them. Odd considering how much he despised small talk with others and had only known John a short while. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he asked the man to stay with him. Or why he volunteered to take over things with Clara and the funeral arrangements. Or why, even now, he was insisting John only pack a few necessary items and return to Baker Street with him. Sherlock was only certain of two things: Jim Moriarty was still on the loose and John Watson’s life was still in danger. Until one or both of those variables changed, he wanted John in his sights at all times. Even as they pulled into the drive, his eyes scanned the immediate area looking for any sign of danger but the street was quiet.

John fished his pockets for keys as Sherlock paid the cabbie and waved him off. Sherlock didn’t want to add the pressure of a running meter to John’s already hunched shoulders. Taking in a deep breath to brace himself, John turned the lock. Most of the police tape had been cleared, with just faint strips left sticking to the edges of an oak door frame. Door swung open, John hung back to remove his key, Sherlock stepping around him and into a darkened sitting room as John fumbled for his wall switch.

As soon as the front hallway was bathed in light John let out a startled gasp.

He had seen blood. Much more than one person should see in a single life. But this was something else. The red stains on the tile a mix of blood and wine and pasta sauce. His logical senses struggled to maintain control. He’d been told where Harry was shot, he knew as a medic how much she would have bled and for how long. But he wasn’t prepared for the stains. His once pristine entry way was now tarnished. Blue frightened eyes darted to every white surface bathed in the shallow spotlight of his front room lamp. Flecks of rust colored spotting were everywhere. His welcome mat soaked through to the fibers was rolled to the side by a pile of old newspapers. His mail sat on the coffee table where someone on the force had decided to do him a kindness and remove it from the floor. But John could see the crisp white edges of those envelopes were stained. He wasn’t ready to rationalize, compartmentalize, sort his way through what his eyes were seeing. So he closed them. Cut off the influx of information.

Blinded, he fumbled through the dark, groping for a familiar seat and collapsing just as his legs gave out. Sherlock stood and watched, immobile in indecision. John’s eyes clenched tight in desperation. But the images wouldn’t stop. His hands began to clench, fists shaking. Right knee bouncing as every muscle in his body tensed from an invisible threat. Balled up, self imploding as he was, John found it harder and harder to maintain breathing. Or even remember how to breathe. He doubled over in the seat, tears pouring from his forcibly closed eyes, gasping for air.

Seeing the man he cared for in such pain, Sherlock’s mind kicked his body back into action. He closed the front door and switched off the main light then crossed back to sit at John’s feet. Reaching up he grabbed a clenched fist, stroking soft circles on the back of the trembling man’s hand. Just as he’d done that first morning. “I am here John, you’re here with me now. You are not alone. You can get through this.” And just as before, John unwound for him. It took a good hour, but piece by piece, he unknotted and relaxed. Gave in to Sherlock’s murmuring of encouragement until his breathing was tempered. John yawned, stretched and opened his eyes. He was sore all over, blinking into the darkness in confusion. “Sherlock, wh--”

“Shh, tomorrow..” Sherlock whispered. “Let’s just sleep.”

“N-naaah,” John tried to object but it was swallowed in a full body yawn. He could feel Sherlock’s cocky smile at his knee and swatted the younger man’s shoulder. “Okay, this way.” John stood, eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, and offered Sherlock his hand. It wasn’t until the older man lead him back to his bedroom that Sherlock remembered he’d never been inside John’s home before.

John fell asleep almost immediately. His body wrought with grief and physical strain. Sherlock tucked the duvet up around him, dropping a soft kiss to the sleeping man’s forehead before slipping back out to the front room and switching the lights on. He fumbled through the unfamiliar space until locating cleaning supplies, then stripped to his boxers and vest.

He started in the kitchen. Cleaning broken glass from the sink. Then he made his way through the front room, righting toppled photographs. Picking out and tossing any remaining bits of broken glass before aligning them with John’s dust lines. He stopped a moment to appreciate younger John, happier John, before it made him upset and he decided it was time to break out the chemicals. Sherlock located the restroom and rooted through John’s medicine cabinet until he found hydrogen peroxide. Returning to the front hallway, he binned the ruined welcome mat and old papers then emptied the entire contents of the bottle and stood aside. Leaning against the side table and enjoying the familiar hiss and pop of cleansing. Blood dissolving and breaking apart.

Back in the kitchen Sherlock prepared a bucket of hot, soapy water. John did not have any rags, and it would be the rudest faux pas imaginable to use his dish towel to clean up a crime scene, so he removed his vest and tossed it into the suds. Once soaked he went back front and scrubbed. Knees raw and pink by the time he finished the initial cleaning. Groaning, he stood and stretched his gangly frame. Though most of the stains were gone or at least faded now, Sherlock wanted to erase them completely. This was something he could do for John, simple chemicals mixing together to make the front hall new again. Sherlock quickly and quietly borrowed a shirt from John’s bureau to fight off the chill then went back to his work. For the next two hours he painstakingly scrubbed away every stray speck and outline with bleach until his eyes were red and stinging.

In the back room, John’s sleep was tainted with restless dreams. He dreamt of breaking waves. The beach and the sun and his sister’s laughter. Lightning cracked over the ocean and John was a child again, turning to look. Eyes wide with wonder and amazement. Thunder rumbled through him and he could feel the sand shifting. He turned to find his parents gone. Harry kneeling before their tombstones in the sand. Her bright bathingsuit had been swapped for black jeans and a dark hoodie. Her lips a trembling line set on not crying in front of him. She had to be strong for John now.

The sky parted and clouds grew heavy with rain until everything was cast in shadow. John was an adult again. Turning to find he stood alone. Behind him he heard a slamming door and ducked for cover. John was fifteen, hiding under the porch of his grandparents’ old home. He could smell the honeysuckle and orchids of nana’s garden. The smell growing fetid and ripe, so repulsive that he revealed his hiding space to the shadows stomping overhead. Harry walked past, no, through him. Bag over her shoulder, head held high. Determined not cry until she was on the bus. “Be a good boy, Johnny,” she called out to him, waving even as the bus pulled away. John did not wave back. “Disgusting dyke,” his grandfather had muttered, spitting on the stone walkway by John’s feet before shoving past him.  John wanted to cry then.  Call out to Harry that he loved her and it doesn't matter who she loves.  But she was long gone.

The thunder rumbled again loud and pounding, then morphed into gunshots.  John was a child again, rushing downstairs to find his parents bleeding out on the living room floor. Screaming for Harriet to wake up while he called police. Harry had cried then. But she was only seven and Clara said it was perfectly normal for a child her age to be upset. Gunshots reported again and lightning flashed strong and bright, striking the front door repeatedly until it was in flames. John was in Afghanistan ducking from an explosion. He ran and jumped behind the nearest wall. Body balled up tight, elbows and knees tucking in. _Smaller target Watson, decrease your mass and save your ass_.  Major Sholto's words ringing in his ears.

Pain blossomed in his shoulder and John collapsed face down into the sand. He struggled to right himself, he had to survive. Had to keep pushing. Then the sand was cool and smooth. Fresh stone tile rubbing his cheek and hands. He rolled over and looked up into the face of James Moriarty. At his feet his front door swung open, Harriet entering with wine and dinner. Her beautiful smile broken by a single gunshot.

“Harry!” John bolted upright in bed. Sheets drenched in sweat. In seconds Sherlock was at his side. Soothing him with soft whispered words and cautious hands. Pulling John close to his chest, running fingers through his hair until he had gone pliant.

“You smell funny,” John mumbled, snuggling closer to Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock let a deep laugh rumble through him but there was no joy behind his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now on hiatus until December as I will be working on a piece of original fiction for NaNoWriMo. <3 Thank you to everyone for your endless support, I love you!


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